


Malice and Snares

by hearteating



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Dark, Demonic Possession, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27915322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearteating/pseuds/hearteating
Summary: Marcus finds Tomas again. The demons found Tomas first.
Relationships: Marcus Keane & Mouse, Marcus Keane/Tomas Ortega
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Malice and Snares

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Savageseraph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageseraph/gifts).



> I hope you have a wonderful Yuletide and enjoy the fic!
> 
> Title is from the Prayer to Saint Michael.

When God spoke to Marcus again, it was to tell him about Tomas.

The Marcus he was _before_ , before Gabriel, before Chicago, before he killed one bad man for the Pope and one good one for Tomas, would have been jealous, to have Him return only to speak of another. But the Marcus he was now was blindingly, achingly, grateful to hear His voice, to hear news of Tomas, even such terrible news as this.

Not Christ the Son nor any of the saints were ever gifted the miracle of teleportation, and so Marcus contented himself with booking a flight from Seattle to La Rochelle, France.

God did not see fit to provide Marcus with an address-- that wasn't the way He communicated-- and so Marcus was left to wander until he felt a tug in his heart. The pull grew stronger until, finally, he stood at the door of a small white house with a garden gone to seed. He knocked.

Mouse opened the door; Marcus braced himself against the twin waves of could-have-been and guilt. He couldn't change the past.

“I should have known you'd turn up,” Mouse said tiredly. She stepped to the side. “Come in, then.”

He followed her in. The walls were whitewash over stone, with exposed beams in the low ceiling and scrubbed wood floors; the sort of house that would probably be listed as “charming” and “cozy,” but seemed to Marcus merely cramped.

“Where is he?” he asked, as soon as the door was shut.

“There's a cellar,” replied Mouse. “By the kitchen. He's down there.” She didn't need to say he wasn't there of his own volition; Marcus had known since the moment God had broken His silence. There was something wrong with Tomas.

Marcus would save him.

Down he descended, into the cool stone cellar. One wall was lined with wine racks, half full. Another was lined with shelves containing a jumble of old cardboard boxes. Votive candles flickered. Marcus didn't so much as glance at them. All his attention was on the open space in the middle of the cellar. On Tomas.

Father Tomas Ortega had always been beautiful. He'd likely always be beautiful, aging gracefully, like a fine vintage, if he was allowed to make it that far. But now, standing in a circle of ash, in the warm candlelight, after all these months, he was second only to God Himself as the most beautiful sight Marcus had ever seen.

Their eyes met, and a flicker of alarm crossed Tomas' face.

Then he opened his mouth.

Tomas laughed, but it wasn't his voice that came from his throat. It was several voices, all of them demonic. Marcus had never heard anything like it, and for a moment he froze in terror, before his training, beat into him all his life, kicked in. He looked over the chains around Tomas' ankles and wrists, the oily sheen around the circle of ash; beneath the horrible laughter, what he'd thought was simply the beating of his own heart was actually the taped sound of chanting monks, just loud enough to be heard. Mouse had contained Tomas well.

Marcus wasn't sure it would be enough. He itched to begin an exorcism, to free Tomas from whatever was possessing him, but he could admit to himself that he didn't know enough, and in this line of work, ignorance was often deadly.

“I'm here, Tomas,” he said.

“Tomas isn't here,” said one of the voices in Tomas' throat. It was lying, though; Marcus had seen Tomas, in that split second before the laughter started. That split second was a lifeline to hope.

“I'll save you,” he promised, and went back up the stairs.

“What happened?” Marcus asked Mouse. They were sitting at the kitchen table; Mouse had made tea, so they had something to look at besides each other.

“It was all right for a while,” she replied. “Three exorcisms we did together, with him going inside the victim's mind. I kept an eye on him, did everything I could to make sure he wasn't possessed, after.” She paused, then looked him in the eye. “It's getting worse, Marcus. It used to be three exorcisms a year, on average. Now it's three exorcisms in as many months. And there's more we likely don't know about.”

Marcus nodded, and took a sip of tea, his mouth dry. He'd known it was getting worse, of course, but it only seemed to have accelerated since Nachburn. And he'd been out of the game as it happened.

“Tomas was...strange, after the third one. He took Communion, though, and didn't react to the holy water I put in his coffee. I told him he wasn't to go into anyone's head again, but I thought he'd get over it. That he was just exhausted.” Mouse laughed, bitterly. “I should have known better.”

“You were exhausted, too,” said Marcus. He could see it in her face, the sleepless days and nights and the stress of holding someone's eternal soul in your hands. He'd felt it himself. 

“Doesn't matter,” she said harshly. “I should have known, because the fourth one...” she took a breath. “The fourth one, the victim died. And I saw Tomas smile.”

Marcus winced. There was no point in offering up explanations, not between the two of them, not in their line of work. They both knew Tomas, and they both knew demons.

“I drugged him that night,” continued Mouse. “He's been in that circle two weeks now. As soon as he realized where he was...they showed up.”

“I've never heard of multiple possessions before,” Marcus said. He tried to keep his voice even. “Didn't think demons liked to share their toys.”

“He's not possessed, Marcus.” Mouse locked eyes with him. “He's a fucking door.”

Marcus slept badly. It was only the fact he hadn't slept since God had shown him Tomas, and the knowledge he needed his wits about him, that prevented him from marching back down to the cellar to try and free Tomas.

Mouse wasn't sure he could be freed.

“They just retreat whenever I attempt an exorcism,” she had said, looking into the dregs of her mug. “And come back after. I was going to end it tonight, before you showed up.”

Marcus reached out and covered her hand with his.

“Thank you,” he'd said, meaning _Thank you for waiting_ , and _Thank you for telling me_ , and _Thank you for making that decision_. It was one he didn't think he could.

She'd snatched her hand from his like she'd been burnt.

“Of course,” Mouse replied. “I wouldn't just leave him like that. I'd never leave anyone like that. I always end it, one way or another. Always.”

Marcus could only bow his head.

Now, he tossed and turned, his usual ability to snatch sleep whenever possible having vanished. The air felt clammy. He couldn't stop thinking about Tomas, trapped as demons stepped in and out of his mind and body as they pleased. 

At four in the morning Marcus rose, unable to even try and sleep. He dressed and made his way down to the cellar.

Tomas lay curled within the circle, his head pillowed on his jacket. He raised his head as Marcus came down the stairs.

“Marcus,” he said blearily. “You shouldn't be here.” Marcus began to smile. Then Tomas' tone changed. “But I'm glad you are.” He smiled slowly as he turned over onto his back and stretched. “I've missed you.”

Marcus had faced demons since he was twelve years old; he knew what they looked like, sounded like. He knew one spoke through Tomas now. Yet he could not stop himself from looking, up Tomas' strong legs, to his chest, his shoulders, all the way up to the self-satisfied smile on Tomas' face.

“Tomas,” said Marcus, “I know you're in there. I'm going to save you.”

“How?” the demon asked, grinning. “Going to kill another man?”

Marcus flinched; the demon chuckled. It flipped over onto its stomach in a move Marcus generally associated with teenage girls. On Tomas it was jarring.

“I wonder,” purred the demon, “just how many men you would kill for Father Tomas Ortega? How many souls would you trade for his, knowing that neither he nor God could love you after?”

Marcus took a breath.

“In the Name of Jesus Christ,” he began, “our God and Lord, strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, Mother of God-.”

The demon scowled.

“Exorcisms won't work,” it hissed.

“Of Blessed Michael the Archangel,” continued Marcus. A proper exorcism wouldn't work, but he could tell the prayer pained the demon. True faith always did. “Of the Blessed Apostles Peter and Paul and all the Saints-”

There was a roar, and then there was only Marcus, outside the circle, and Tomas, unconscious, within it.

Once again Marcus and Mouse sat around the kitchen table, clutching mugs of tea.

“I have my gun,” said Mouse quietly. “Should it come to that.”

“It won't,” Marcus replied heavily, harshly. “God called me here for a reason, Mouse.”

Her mouth thinned.

“Did you ever wonder if perhaps that reason was to help him die?”

“No.” Marcus shook his head, and desperation took the place of harshness. “I couldn't do that. I can't. He wouldn't ask that.”

“God tests even His most beloved children,” said Mouse, with a touch of bitterness.

“I'm hardly that, these days.” Marcus smiled wearily. “If I ever was. I'd started to believe He'd abandoned me, after everything...I was so angry. But Tomas. I believe God has plans for Tomas. Plans that mean he can't die here, like this.”

Mouse looked at him for a few moments.

“All right,” she said finally. “We'll try again. But if you try and leave, if you start whinging to me about being too close or not being able to do it, I'll end it. And I'll come after you.”

Marcus raised his mug to her.

“Fair enough.”

The dreams began the second night. 

They started off violent: Marcus sneaking into Mouse's room, placing a pillow over her face, or, no, maybe he uses his hands, closes them around her throat, or a knife, perhaps, gutting her while she screamed. Marcus setting fire to his hands, his whole self; Marcus slitting his wrists, his throat; he blew out his brains half a dozen ways. 

Then they slipped into memory, and Marcus once again killed his father, once more endured the horrors of the orphanage, saw Mouse possessed, watched Gabriel's neck twist and break, killed Andy. Over and over again the memories replayed themselves, every detail sharpened, every sound clear as a bell.

Finally, they edged into the profane: Marcus bent over an alter while some unseen figure panted hot in his ear as it fucked him; tied to a bed, a rosary knotted around the base of his painfully hard cock; Tomas on his knees before him, looking up through dark lashes as he took Marcus into his mouth.

Marcus was no stranger to nightmares, but the variety of these, the way a new one started before an old one even finished, was unbalancing.

It was obvious from the deepening shadows under her eyes that Mouse was similarly plagued. They didn't discuss the nightmares, except to agree they were likely the work of multiple demons. They didn't speak much at all, not out of any conscious choice but because between the nightmares and the endless hours of trying to save Tomas, neither had much energy for conversation.

They worked together and separately, trying every ritual, every prayer they could think of. Mouse had learned some unconventional tricks in her time as an unofficial exorcist, but even they were met with, at best, a temporary retreat.

The demons taunted them, one by one or several at once. Old wounds they'd thought long scarred over were flayed open and old secrets dragged out into the light, made new by the demons that rotated in and out of Tomas' body. Marcus winced at every unnaturally loud crack of joints and every trickle of blood from Tomas' mouth; just because the demons weren't likely to kill Tomas' body while they needed it didn't mean they treated it kindly.

Tomas, when he was lucid, when he was present, begged for Marcus and Mouse to leave him, to end it, so there was no chance the demons behind his eyes could get free.

“This can't keep on, Marcus,” said Mouse one evening. They picked at plates of pasta, neither of them hungry. “We're exhausted, the both of us. We're going to make a mistake soon.”

Marcus had known this was coming; the only surprise was how long it had taken. He loved her for allowing him this much time, even as he dreaded what she said next.

“I know you love him, Marcus, but it has to be done. I'll do it, if you can't.” Mouse was being kind, and practical, but Marcus couldn't help the flicker of anger that rose in him. He bit it back; Mouse didn't deserve his anger. She was a good exorcist, though he couldn't help but wish she had lived a life free of demons.

“Give me three days,” he pleaded. “Three more days, and if we haven't saved him, I'll put a bullet in him myself and burn him to ashes.” When he'd first arrived, he couldn't imagine himself even entertaining the idea; a lot had changed since then.

Mouse looked at him searchingly, then sighed.

“Three days, but that's it. We don't know what's happening out in the world; we might be needed. But for Tomas, I'll give you three more days.”

“Thank you,” said Marcus. 

The first day, Marcus tried to strengthen Tomas' ties to himself, in the hopes of loosening the demons' hold on him. He told Tomas everything he knew about him; stories Tomas had told him himself; stories Marcus had been there for; little details and big moments. He didn't gloss over any of Tomas' mistakes or bad habits, either; it would have been dishonest, would have defeated the point of the exercise.

“You have faith in God, Tomas. I have faith in you,” he'd told Tomas all those months ago. Marcus tried to pour that faith into every word.

At first, it seemed to be working. Tomas sat in the circle, arms around his knees, eyes closed, apparently listening. No sign of demonic activity.

Then, he opened his eyes and smiled.

“Did I ever tell you, back in Chicago, that Pazuzu took on your form to try and tempt me to suicide?” His voice sounded normal, and there was nothing wrong with his question. It could have been an honest attempt to add to Marcus' strategy; Tomas cementing his reality. But Marcus had spent the past few hours lost in memories of Tomas, and something in the question caused him to tense. Tomas continued. “A dirty old priest, whispering in my ear, trying to tempt me to sin. What a cliché.”

Tomas uncurled and leaned back onto his elbows, letting his legs fall open.

“You're not Tomas,” breathed Marcus.

“Maybe not,” smiled the demon. “But I was telling the truth. Would you like to hear what else Tomas has been keeping from you? After all those stories, I'm sure you wouldn't mind.”

“Leave.”

“Shall I tell you how broken-hearted he was after you abandoned him? How he tried to pretend you would be back any moment? He was like a dog pining after its owner, Marcus. So pitiful.”

“Begone, demon.” It was only decades of practice that kept Marcus' voice from shaking.

“And he thought about you,” the demon continued with a sly smile that looked so wrong on Tomas' face. “He thought about you and Peter, who you never told him about. And when Mouse told him about your history together, Tomas thought about that too.” The demon trailed a hand up the inside of Tomas' thigh. “He thought about it a lot.”

“In the name of God the Heavenly Father, I command you to leave!” Marcus shouted.

The demon laughed.

“Come, Marcus, isn't that what you want? Join us, and Father Tomas Ortega will be yours. Everyone wins.”

Marcus snorted.

“Hell is the only winner in that scenario, and Tomas and I would rather die than let that happen.”

“Oh, don't worry Marcus,” said the demon. “You'll die anyway.”

The second day, Marcus tried a different strategy. Rather than using the same prayers over and over again, he would try different prayers for different demons, in the hopes a more targeted approach would be successful. It wasn't likely, but one never knew.

He started with a rosary, something tangible he knew by heart. He sat outside the circle, waiting for a demon to make itself known. After yesterday, they likely saw him as a vulnerable target.

It took several hours for the demons to catch on. It was not always easy to tell when a new demon had set in, but Marcus had learned the past weeks that a demon, once pushed out of Tomas' head, tended to take some time to recover. So he took any pause between blasphemies and insinuations as proof of a new evil, and adjusted his prayers accordingly. Once they realized Marcus reached for a new prayer every time he pushed out a demon, they began to appear in groups, several squeezing through the doorway in Tomas' mind at once to taunt Marcus.

Marcus switched to hymns, meant to be sung in chorus, though there was only him here. It worked anyway, the holy words burning the demons' ears.

At the end of the night, Tomas looked at him, eyes clear, and smiled, a tiny, broken quirk of the lips.

“They're still there,” he said. “I can feel them. But they're on their side for now. Thank you.”

“Of course, Tomas,” replied Marcus. “Tomorrow I'll send them packing for good.”

He wished he knew for sure whether he was telling the truth.

Marcus managed two hours of nightmarish sleep before giving up. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. It was cheap plonk, but he wasn't drinking it for the taste; he just wanted to fuzz the edges of the panic building in him, just for a bit.

He'd promised he'd kill Tomas if he couldn't save him by the end of the day, and he had no idea if he could manage either.

The floors creaked gently as Mouse entered the kitchen. Her eyes were shadowed and her skin was pallid; she looked exhausted. Even so, she looked lovely, Marcus thought. 

“Last day,” she said.

Marcus nodded.

“Give that here.” She reached for the bottle of wine and took a gulp. “If it comes down to it- if you can't go through with it- I'll do it.” She took another drink, and set the bottle back on the table by Marcus. “I liked Tomas. He doesn't deserve to suffer.” She paused. “And neither do you.”

“Oh?” Marcus tried for a smile. “I thought you hated me.”

“I loved you, Marcus,” sighed Mouse. “That was the problem. I can't hate you. But that doesn't mean I forgive you, either.”

“I reckon that's fair enough. Not sure I can forgive myself, either.”

They sat in silence for a minute. Dawn was still several hours away, and the house was quiet.

“Well,” said Mouse, finally. “I'm going to try and catch some shut-eye. Be careful down there.”

“Thank you,” Marcus replied. Mouse nodded at him. As she reached the door, she paused.

“I mean it, Marcus; be careful. There's a war coming, and I'd prefer if you were on my side.”

She slipped out before he could think of a response.

As dawn broke, Marcus went down into the cellar for the last time. Tomas lay asleep in the middle of the circle, seemingly at peace for once. Marcus didn't wake him. Instead, he got down on his knees and prayed; not the recitation of a prayer, as he'd been doing for weeks, but a private prayer for God alone, that Tomas would be saved.

When he raised his head he saw Tomas was awake.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Tomas groaned and slowly eased himself up to sit.

“Is it really morning?” he rasped. “No windows down here. I can never tell.”

Marcus' heart ached.

“Sun was just coming up when I came down here to keep you company,” he replied. “Another lovely day on God's green earth.” He tried to keep his voice light, so Tomas wouldn't suspect what Marcus feared he might have to do.

“I wish I could see the sunrise,” sighed Tomas. “I do appreciate the company though. I like you better than the demons, although there don't seem to be any here right now.”

“Oh?” Marcus raised his eyebrows. This was a good thing; maybe he and Tomas could figure out a way to shut the door in his head. 

“I can feel them moving around,” Tomas said, his eyes turning glassy and haunted for a moment. “They're still there, but for now, they are leaving me alone.”

“That's a good thing, yeah?” Marcus eased up from his kneeling position with a groan. The floors were hard, and he wasn't getting any younger. He was sure Tomas was faring much worse. 

“It is.” Tomas bit his lip. “Marcus, I can't do this anymore. I know, I know, you and Mouse have done everything you can, but nothing is working, and you can't do this forever. I can't do this forever. So I'm asking you, please, end it.”

“Tomas-” 

“I know I'm asking a lot,” Tomas continued, his face open and despairing. “But every time they come it feels like they chip away a piece of my soul. And we can't risk them taking over and getting out. There's too much at stake. So please, Marcus, I am begging you. Kill me.” 

“Tomas, I-” Marcus struggled with what to say. _Of course_ mixed with _I don't want to_ mixed with _Never_ mixed with _Why do you think I'm here?_

“Or you can get Mouse,” said Tomas, looking away. “I shouldn't have asked you.”

“Tomas,” Marcus said again. “Look at me.” Their eyes met. Marcus looked for any sign of a demon in them, but only saw Tomas' fear and hope. He sighed. “God spoke to me again, finally, after all this time. I was so happy, and so scared when He told me to find you. When I got here I thought He wanted me to save you.”

Tomas smiled shakily.

“Perhaps He did. Just not how you imagined.”

“I always knew He was a bit of a bastard,” replied Marcus. He nodded. “I'll do it, Tomas. For you.”

He had a knife in his pocket and a gun tucked into the back of his waistband. The smart thing to do would be to stand here, outside the circle, and put a bullet in Tomas' head like he'd promised Mouse.

Instead, he took a breath, and stepped over the line of oil and ash into the circle.

“Marcus, don't.” Tomas stepped back. “It isn't safe.”

Marcus took another step toward him, slowly, and reached out a hand. Tomas' eyes were wide, but he didn't take another step back. When Marcus' hand reached Tomas' jaw, Tomas sighed and relaxed into his touch.

“It's all right,” said Marcus quietly. “I'll do it quick.” He leaned down and kissed Tomas under his right eye, full of love and regret. Judas might have kissed Jesus the same way. Tomas' eyes closed.

Then, all of a sudden, his hands were around Marcus' neck.

“How sweet,” hissed the demon that had stepped into Tomas' body. “How stupid. You think we'll let you kill such an easy way into your world?” Tomas was strong, and the demon used that strength as well as its own to try and crush Marcus' throat. He grabbed at Tomas' hands, trying to peel the fingers back from his throat. The demon dug its nails in and pressed down harder, cutting off both blood and breath.

“Fight it, Tomas,” Marcus managed to choke out. The demon laughed.

“Oh, he's trying, old man. More than he's fought us this whole time. I wonder if it will break him to watch you die.” The pressure eased for a moment, but only so the demon could kick Marcus' knee, sending him to the ground. The demon straddled him and wrapped its fingers tighter around his neck.

Marcus' vision sparked and darkened. He was still struggling, but his body felt heavy and seemed to be moving on autopilot. When he was younger, he'd wondered if it would be a demon to finally do him in, but as he'd aged, he'd dared to hope for a peaceful end. It would have been nice.

As he blacked out, the pressure on his neck suddenly disappeared. He gasped a painful, gorgeous breath. And another. And another. As his vision cleared, he saw Tomas sitting back, looking from his hands to Marcus and back again.

“They're gone.” Tomas laughed shakily. “Marcus, they're gone! I can't feel them anymore, not anywhere.” He leaned back down to press his forehead against Marcus', his eyes closed in relief.

“I knew you could do it,” replied Marcus. He raised a heavy arm and hugged Tomas.

“They're gone,” Tomas repeated.

And Marcus believed.


End file.
